Somno Stepdad's Breeding Obsession (Stepdad's Sleep-Play #4)

1. Paxton

PAXTON

The afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the marble foyer into a river of molten gold. My shoes click against the polished stone as I pace the length of the manor, the sound swallowed by the cavernous emptiness of rooms.

"Mr. Miller?"

I turn and see Nathan, my assistant. His polished loafers scuff against the tile as he hurries to catch up, his leather portfolio tucked beneath his arm like a shield.

My head turns back, and I don't slow my stride. "What?"

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the silence. "The estate staff is asking about your late wife's personal belongings. Her clothing, jewelry, the keepsakes in her dressing room. They weren't sure if you wanted everything boxed up or?—"

I stop outside the drawing room, the weight of the question pressing against my ribs. The grand staircase looms ahead, its mahogany curves leading to the second floor where shadows pool like spilled ink.

Nathan waits, his fingers tightening around the portfolio.

"They're not mine to sort through." My gaze drifts upward. "Ask her daughter. Whatever Paige wants to keep stays. Whatever she wants to donate, donate it."

He gives a single nod. "Understood."

Movement at the top of the staircase catches my eye.

My stepdaughter, Paige Davis.

She's nineteen years old now, standing at five-foot-six, her flowing honey blonde waves catching the sun like liquid gold. The afternoon glow turns her skin to warm amber, and her exotic topaz hazel eyes catch the light in flecks of green and gold.

She's beautiful in a way that seems completely lost on her.

No expensive dresses. No designer heels. No diamonds dripping from her throat.

Just frayed denim shorts that hug the curve of her hips, scuffed sneakers, and one of those oversized sweaters she always seems to be wearing. The fabric swallows her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips as she grips the banister.

She keeps herself fit without ever appearing obsessed with it, and she carries herself with an easy confidence that has nothing to do with trying to impress anyone.

There's something about the way she stands… shoulders back, chin lifted that makes it impossible to look away.

She catches me watching. A small smile tugs at her lips, hesitant but real. "Am I interrupting?"

For one dangerous second, the world narrows to the curve of her mouth, the way her teeth press into her lower lip. My pulse kicks against my throat, and I force my attention back to Nathan before I do something reckless.

"No," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "We were just discussing your mother's things."

Nathan turns toward her, ever the professional. "Miss Davis, we were finalizing arrangements for your mother's personal items. Would you prefer to keep anything in particular? Jewelry, clothing, mementos?—"

Paige's fingers whiten around the banister. "I... I haven't really thought about it yet."

Her throat moves as she swallows, the delicate line of her neck drawing my gaze like a magnet. I can almost feel the warmth of her skin, the way her pulse would flutter beneath my fingers if I pressed them there.

"Take your time," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets before I reach for her. "There's no rush."

Her smile fades, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering near her jawline like she's tracing the memory of her mother's touch. "I'll let Nathan know what I decide."

Nathan nods, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course."

I dismiss him with a jerk of my chin. "You can head home for today."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

Nathan excuses himself, leaving us alone. The moment he's gone, the manor feels like it's shrinking around me, the walls pressing in until there's nothing left but her.

Paige shifts her weight, her sneakers scuffing against the landing. The sound is so quiet, so normal, that it sends a jolt through me.

The air between us hums, thick with things left unsaid. I should walk away. But my shoes stay planted to the floor, my gaze locked on the way the light catches the gold in her eyes.

The manor has never felt smaller. Or more dangerous.

She descends, and a honey blonde strand clings to her cheek for a heartbeat before her fingers brush it back, tucking it behind the shell of her ear with a motion so familiar it's already burned into my memory.

Her nails are short, unpainted—practical, like everything else about her—yet the way they graze her jawline sends a spark skittering down my spine.

"So..." Her voice drifts, light and teasing, as her gaze sweeps across the foyer's vaulted ceiling, the chandelier casting fractured prisms across the marble. "I think this place gets bigger every time I turn around. Like it's trying to swallow me whole."

A rough laugh rumbles in my chest, low and unexpected. "It's not the house that's expanding. Just your awareness of how much of it you haven't seen yet. And it only feels that way because there are only two of us living here."

She turns those topaz eyes on me, sharp with amusement. "Yes. I still haven't figured out where half the rooms are."

I take a few steps up, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo—something citrusy, bright, like summer even in the dead of winter. "You've been here for years. You should know your way around by now."

Her grin falters for half a second, replaced by something almost shy. "I do know my way around. Mostly. It's just... there are whole wings I've never stepped foot in. Like the east corridor. Or the third-floor library. Or?—"

"The servants' quarters."

She blinks. "There are servants' quarters?"

Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and the sight of it—plump, pink, biteable—does something reckless to my pulse. I force my gaze up, but it doesn't help.

I've spent forty years mastering self-control.

It shouldn't start slipping now.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

Paige shifts her weight, her sneakers scuffing against the stairs in a way that's somehow louder than it should be.

"Can I ask you something?" The words tumble out before she can second-guess them.

I arch a brow. "You just did."

She rolls her eyes, but there's no real irritation in it. Just that same quiet warmth that's been chipping away at my resolve. "You know what I mean. How about a third one?"

I jerk my chin toward her. "Ask."

Her fingers twist together, knuckles whitening for a fraction of a second before she forces them still. "Are you planning on going to bed early tonight?"

The question catches me off guard. "I hadn't decided." The words come out rougher than I intend.

"Oh." Her shoulders slump, just slightly, before she straightens them again. "I was wondering if... maybe you could wake me up at midnight?"

"Midnight?"

She nods, quick and eager. "I need to buy something online before it sells out. It's—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "Never mind. I'll figure it out."

I arch a brow and fold my arms, the fabric of my shirt pulling tight across my shoulders. "Why not set an alarm?"

"Because alarms don't work."

"They don't?"

A sheepish smile tugs at her lips. "They don't work on me. I'm a deep sleeper." She laughs, but it's strained, like she's embarrassed. "I always sleep through my alarms. Once, my friend thought I'd passed out because I didn't wake up to her screaming in my ear."

"Screaming, huh?" I repeat it like it's a foreign concept. Like the idea of someone sleeping through anything is absurd.

"Even a fire alarm." She holds up a hand, ticking off the failures on her fingers.

I stare at her. "You're serious."

"Unfortunately."

"So you expect me to get the job done."

Her nod is immediate. "I know you'll actually make sure I'm awake."

The trust in her voice twists something inside me, something dark and possessive. She doesn't even question that I'll do it.

"I'll knock." The words are out before I can stop them.

She wrinkles her nose. "I probably won't hear it."

"I'll keep knocking."

Her laugh is soft, disbelieving. "I probably still won't hear it."

"So," I say, unfolding my arms, "I need to find a different way?"

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Just nods, once, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If you don't mind. "

I study her… the way her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, the way her fingers twist together again, betraying her nerves.

"I don't mind." The words are a growl, low and final.

Relief softens her features, her shoulders relaxing like she's been holding her breath. "Thank you."

"What exactly are you buying that's worth waking up at midnight for?" The question slips out before I can stop it. I don't even care what it is. I just want to hear her talk.

She smiles, almost teasing. "It's limited edition."

"That tells me nothing."

Her grin widens. "I'll show you when I get it."

I huff, but there's no real irritation in it. Just the slow, creeping realization that I'm already looking forward to this. To her.

"Fine. Midnight."

She beams at me, like I've just handed her the moon. "You're the best. I have to go."

Before I can answer, she heads down, her sneakers squeaking against the marble. I watch her go, the sway of her hips, the way her hair catches the light with every step.

Then she's gone, swallowed by the shadows of the first floor.

I let out a slow breath, the air hissing between my teeth.

This is getting dangerous.

She just asked me to wake her up.

It should be the simplest favor in the world.

So why does it already feel like midnight can't come fast enough?

The door creaks, just a whisper of sound, but in the silence of her room, it might as well be a gunshot. I freeze, half-expecting her to stir, to blink awake, to notice me standing here like some kind of thief in the dark.

But she doesn't.